


Shapes and Mass

by MaskoftheRay



Series: The Things That I Do For You [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Bruce Wayne Has Mental Health Issues, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Dreams and Nightmares, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Not A Fix-It, Ouch, Protective Clark Kent, Sad, Sad Ending, Slice of Life, Unsettling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25302364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: “I think— you were dead.”“Is that really so shocking?”Or Bruce has a nightmare, and he and Clark have a conversation about it.
Relationships: Batfamily & Bruce Wayne (mentioned), Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: The Things That I Do For You [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693975
Comments: 14
Kudos: 76





	Shapes and Mass

**Author's Note:**

> “The **negative spaces** between shapes and masses are also carefully considered by the artist, since they can be so adjusted as to enhance the action and character of the positive images.”  
> — “Negative space (design),” _Encyclopædia Britannica_

It was dark. So dark that he could see almost nothing, only a vague impression of the solid objects which surrounded him. But at the same time, in that unspeakable way of hind-brain instinct, Bruce also _knew_ that there was nothing immediately in front of him. The emptiness was only daunting because of its unknown scale. In the manner of most unsettled life-forms, Bruce felt his heartrate increase, and his breath quicken in response to the unnerving atmosphere.

He had always been afraid of the dark.

It was also quiet. Not _too quiet_ , but quiet in a mundane way which made no attempt to be unsettling, simply _was_. His breathing seemed loud in the silence. Rationally, Bruce knew that it was not. But fear wasn’t a rational emotion. Cautiously, he brought his hands up before him, and slowly moved down the— hallway?

Yes, it seemed to be a hallway of sorts, though he could feel no walls when he reached out to either side to test the area’s boundaries. The farther he went, the more pronounced the tightness in his chest became. He had never done well with chaos, so this situation— knowing that anything could be waiting for him— was disturbing. But Bruce was, if nothing else, good at confronting his fears. So he continued on.

As he did so, Bruce abruptly remembered that he was looking for something. _But what?_ Frowning, he glanced around his nebulous location, as if an answer would appear from the dimness. None did. He sucked in a slightly-sharp breath, and attempted to ignore the increasing prickle of disquiet which flowed down his spine. _This is all wrong. Where’s_ —

Clark.

_Where is Clark?_

Suddenly, his surroundings seemed that much more oppressive, and the yawning chasm of space around him that much more sinister. Bruce sucked in another shallow breath, and increased his pace, damn the danger. His footsteps were silent, everything was silent. As Bruce walked faster, even the vague impression of walls, of floor, of forward or backward, seemed to fade. His sense of urgency, his need _to find Clark and make sure that he was okay_ increased.

But he was getting nowhere, absolutely nowhere, and the prospect of finding Clark, of rescuing him from a still-unknown danger, seemed to shrink the more his desperation increased— almost as if Bruce were falling down, down, down into a deep abyss, only he couldn’t fall, not in this empty nothingness, so it only _felt_ like he was falling, and he made no progress as he ‘ran,’ trying to escape so that he could _save Clark from this devouring darkness_ —

“Bruce. Bruce? Bruce!”

With a gasp, he bolted upright.

For a moment, Bruce’s eyes could only focus on his white-knuckled fists, which gripped at the crumpled sheets. He felt overwhelmed. The sheets were shaking. No. _He_ was shaking. It was still dark, and only a small sliver of his hands was visible— the rest was obscured. Bruce fumbled for the bedside lamp, and the retinal burn he faced from the sudden onslaught of light was a relief. Like the sting of antiseptic in an open wound. He consciously ignored the idea that there could be another cause for the wet prickling in his eyes aside from physical discomfort.

Abruptly, several other things became apparent.

He was sweating, somewhat profusely. Most of the blankets were tangled around Bruce’s feet, and the sheets, other than where they were (still) clutched in his grasp, were constricting. Clark— who _was_ here, and now sitting up in bed next to him— stared. His face looked a little strange, skin appearing pale, almost otherworldly, in the combined light of the lamp and the moon. But Bruce did his best to ignore the discrepancies; it was probably just his imagination playing tricks on him. He took a deep, slow breath and tried (unsuccessfully) to calm his racing pulse.

The blue irises of Clark’s eyes, when they met his own, appeared to be slightly murky, and the whites glimmered from the lamplight. He seemed concerned. For a long, tense moment, the room was silent as they continued to stare at one another. Eventually, Bruce blinked, looking away. This seemed to break the spell. Clark sighed. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do I ever?”

A short, rueful laugh. One which he had heard many, many times before; not so much recently. “No, you don’t. Not with Alfred, not with Diana. Certainly not with _Leslie_.”

Bruce stood shakily— paying no mind to the fact that he was in nothing but boxers— and walked over to the large window, which offered a view of Gotham’s glittering lights and, distantly, a small glimpse of the bay. He kept his eyes averted from where Clark’s reflection should be. Wisely, his boyfriend did not try to approach. Though he could imagine the warmth of Clark’s body heat still, and it felt for a moment as if the other man _had_ hugged him from behind, perhaps resting his chin on Bruce’s shoulder.

But this did not actually happen, and they fell silent again.

After a few more minutes of gazing out at the quiet expanse of the manor’s yard, his city, the bay, Bruce felt less off-center. He took a deep, steadying breath anyway. Still facing the window, he spoke: “I think— you were dead.”

“Is that really so shocking?”

Bruce inhaled sharply, surprised. He felt his shoulders tense up, and noted absently that this was probably quite noticeable from Clark’s perspective. Too bad. His pulse thrummed in irritation, but even as he opened his mouth to speak, began to turn around, a tendril of dread wrapped around Bruce’s stomach, stopping him from moving. Instead, he stared at the far corner of the room, which was obscured by the lingering night. It felt like a safer place to focus on.

“Yes, Clark. _Of course_ it is. I never expected—” Bruce trailed off.

A faint sigh, a fainter rustling of sheets, so faint it was as if he’d conjured up the sound from a memory. Bruce swallowed thickly. “Bruce,” came Superman’s soft voice. Jaw clenched, he resolutely did not turn around. “What is this, the third time in a week?”

“Yes?” he replied hesitantly. It was hard to keep track of the quantity of one’s nightmares, after a while. It had been more than a while now. Though this particular iteration of the nightmare was new, Bruce did not appreciate the novelty. He could admit, however, that it was better than the more graphic versions he’d had in the past.

Another sigh, this one softer. “I’m not saying that this shouldn’t affect you still— hell, it would affect me too— but I think it’s time to examine _why_ it still does. It’s not like I’m going to die again; nothing can really hurt me, either… I think you should talk to someone.”

His fists clenched, and the harsh bite of his nails into the skin of his palms was surprising, if not entirely unwelcome for the way it jolted him into awareness. “Don’t say that, Clark! You don’t _understand_ how I— it isn’t fair of you to ask me to… This is your fault!” Bruce whirled around to face his boyfriend, so that Clark could see exactly what he thought of his advice.

But Clark wasn’t there.

In fact, Clark’s side of the bed was eerily neat— undisturbed. The blankets were still tucked into their respective corners, the pillow unwrinkled, the nightstand surface carefully dusted and devoid of any personal belongings, even glasses. It was only Bruce’s side which showed any disruption. Seeing this felt like the emotional equivalent of slowly letting the air out of a balloon— the emptiness was foreseeable, but disappointing, nonetheless. A part of Bruce had known that Clark would not be there.

Yet this feeling, this knowledge, was more than an emptiness, more than a hurt, far more than a mere _disappointment_. It felt as if someone had fucking torn his lungs out, or punched him in the gut, then pushed him into the suffocating void of space. He was filled by a cold, breathless ache, and ready to burst. _It seems like he was just here_. Bruce swallowed convulsively, and closed his eyes— the negative space burned. A moment later, he opened them. Though he did not really expect an answer, he still had to try.

“Clark?”

The only response was silence, and the bed, predictably, stayed empty.

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from [here](https://www.britannica.com/art/negative-space). 
> 
> Consider this an AU to my little universe. 
> 
> Yes, I did make myself cry while writing this one. You’re welcome.


End file.
